The Special Two
by LanceSkoggle
Summary: One shot. Peter/Sylar slash. Sylar is alone, and he's not sure why. Angst, blood, language, and boy kissing. Title from the Missy Higgins song of the same name.


01/12/2009 22:11:00

Sylar had been sitting in his room for hours. He hadn't been able to shake this daze, hadn't been able to run away from his dreams. He had been dreaming a lot lately – and for God's sake, he didn't know why. His recent encounters had been _nothing_. Those meaningless nights were nothing. But they were something. He couldn't figure it out.

Then he remembered.

_Peter._

He. Loved. Peter.

How did that even make sense? Sylar didn't love anyone. Sylar _never_ loved _anyone_. Not even his Mother, really. So why the fuck was he all of a sudden having these feelings for _Peter_ all of a sudden?

But he had.

And now, Sylar had trapped himself in his house. Barricaded his heart. The world outside was dangerous, and not because of the people; no, those he could take out in a split second. What he was hiding from was something much worse. Something that threatened to destroy his entire frame of mind – what made him special, unique: his inexplicable ability to disassociate himself from his feelings. He could kill a person without so much as a thought to their families. But now.

No. That was not a thought he could have. Sylar didn't _deserve_ to even think about Peter in that way. Sylar was a wreck. He was alone. Mind bent on one phrase:

_I don't deserve the sunshine._

But of course, the sunlight continued. No matter how he cursed, or bent his thought to it, there were just certain things he couldn't control. One was that damn sun. Fuck, he was immortal! He should be able to control that fucking thing!

Alas, it did not move. Sylar's powers were too weak. So, he sat in his room, defeated. His hair was disheveled, and in his face. His eyes had faded into nothingness, and his lips had chapped to an unhealthy level. His bare toes creaked an old panel in his floorboard up. And down. Up. And down. His toes were in purgatory. Raw. Healed. Raw. Healed. But most of all, it was cold. So fucking _cold_. Sylar hadn't eaten in days. He just sat, in this position, knowing he'd never die. But he'd be so, _so_ cold. Maybe this was hell? Maybe he had somehow missed the part where he had died. But no. That didn't happen. It didn't happen because all he could think about was _Peter._

"Peter!" Sylar screamed out loud, his voice rough. He hadn't prepared for that shout. It had been days since he had spoken. He had only thought, and dreamed. And he thought and dreamed for days on end. He really didn't even remember how long it had been. Just that it had been a _long _time.

And that the whiskey was gone.

It had vanished days ago. Or what had seemed like days; Sylar couldn't possibly say at this point. Unfortunately, it's effects had long since worn off, and Sylar just sat there. Miserable. Pathetic. And. Crying?

Was Sylar actually crying?

God dammit. He was. But Sylar wouldn't do anything about it at this point. He just sat there, huddled on the floor, just creaking that _damn_ floorboard up and down.

_Creak-creak. Creak-creak. Creeeeeeak—SMASH!_

The floorboard finally capsized. It was done for. Gone. Sylar had destroyed something else. And of course, his toe went right on healing. The irony was so. Romantic. There he had destroyed something, but it didn't destroy him. He watched as the last of his blood fell to the floor, and his toe regenerated itself anew.

And yet. There was one thing Sylar knew could destroy him. One thing that lurked in his mind like a shadow under a great light.

Peter.

His conscious just wouldn't let that go, would it?

"No."

Sylar looked up to see a shadow lengthening above him. He fell back in shock as he realized who the figure was he was facing.

It was himself.

Except. Not him. The man above him was none other than who he used to be. Who he despised: it was Gabriel Grey.

"What are _you_ doing here," Sylar bemused, trying to not seemed shocked or threatened, but failing miserably.

"I—I don't know how I got here," Gabriel said, "Pl—please don't kill me."

Under any normal circumstances, Sylar would have just sliced through whoever or whatever's head it was that was playing such a cruel joke on him. But this time. Was different. He couldn't bring himself to do it. But why?

"I—we just need to talk," he heard the pathetic voice say.

"Talk?"

"Yeah. Do you remember when we used to be kids—,"

"_We?_"

"You and I. We are the same," the innocent one said, pushing his glasses up, "it's just. You. You've changed. You're different."

"What does that make you?"

"Good," his alter-ego mused, "I am good."

Sylar didn't have time for this. Scratch that. He didn't _want_ to have time for this, but in all reality, he had been sitting here for days on end doing nothing but freezing his ass off, drinking, and cutting his toe open. So really he had all the time in the world.

Actually. Quite literally.

"You know I can hear your every thought," Gabriel's voice commented.

Sure.

"What are you, a mind reader?"

"Not quite."

"So what do you want?"

"Like I was saying," Gabriel mused, moving himself to sit down on the floor. "Do you mind?"

Sylar made no response. Instead he just stared at his counterpart for a few awkward moments. Gabriel just sat and looked directly back at Sylar. Gabriel wasn't as frightened as before, but still, he seemed slightly on edge. But in all honesty, who could blame him? This _was_ Sylar he was talking to.

"I—do you remember," the weaker one began, looking at Sylar. "There was a time. When you thought you'd live by your scruples. You'd be a watch-maker, get married, have children, and live a healthy life until. Until you died. What. What happened to that?"

Sylar was silent. He sat still. Placid. His only movement was that of his eyes, drifting downwards. His brain suddenly seemed to slow; he didn't think. All that was running through his mind was. Well.

Peter.

Peter was everything he wished he was when he was a kid. He could have been a child of privilege—take advantage of an education some only dream about. He could be young, and innocent. And. Beautiful. Not this mess he had become.

Sylar sometimes wished he and Peter were actually brothers… that it had been true. But it wasn't. And in all reality, Sylar was greatful for it. Because that meant—

"You don't deserve Peter," Gabriel snapped. Sylar looked up slowly at those innocent eyes, but he didn't see what he expected to. This time, all he saw was a gnarly creature of _hatred_ and _judgment. _"You will never have him! He is too _good_ for you!"

That last comment was so full of fire…Sylar couldn't stand it anymore. He snapped up at the form, throwing all of his weight into a force that would have destroyed another form. But this force didn't.

Sylar found himself collapsed against a mirror on the wall. He fell to the floor, and began to bleed. He looked around. There was no one else in the room.

"_FUCK!"_

He slowly began pulling shards of the mirror out of his shoulder and arm, letting his skin heal itself. He couldn't take living like this much longer. Every time his body healed itself, he found that an emotional scar formed itself; a scar much deeper than was his body would physically produce.

How did he end up this way, after all? Gabriel was right. Sylar had abandoned the person he was to be. That person he said he would be when he was a child.

He had crossed boundaries he had never intended to cross. And now he was lost in the maze that was his mind; nothing seemed to avail it. No memory, no thought. He couldn't escape. The snow surrounded him, covered in bloodshed.

_When did it start snowing?_

Sylar couldn't believe his eyes as the snow glistened in his room. It would have been a beautiful sight, had it not been for the odor of decaying corpses, a smell he knew far too well.

Yes, they were all dead. Most of them had their heads sliced open. And Sylar sat, in the middle of them. He looked around, dazed, trying to get a sense over what was happening to him.

"How could you do this?"

Sylar jumped again. He wasn't quite sure what made him so jumpy right now. He looked around to see who was talking.

"You can't just get away from me that easily."

Sylar looked around again, to discover his alternate self standing on the brink of a cliff. A very snowy cliff.

"What—what are you doing to me," Sylar pleaded. Which was funny, because Sylar really never pleads.

"You do this to yourself," Gabriel smirked, "What, do you not feel in control?"

"I am in control!"

"Oh, yes you are, my friend," Gabriel seized the moment, "yes you are."

"What do you _WANT FROM ME?"_

Sylar's voice immediately deepened, and he began attempting to throw objects about to a fro. Nothing moved. Everything was silent. Still. Deadly.

"I want you to tell me."

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me—that you mean it."

"Mean what?"

Gabriel sighed and looked around, laughing. He began almost _dancing _about the field of snow, looking up joyfully at the sky.

"You know, this reminds me a lot of where we grew up. Queens in the snow. Such a sight to behold," Gabriel recounted, "Of course, here you can see the sky. You can see anything. Just name it. The stars…the moon…the sun…even smog, if that's your taste."

"What are you going on about?"

"Sylar…you oppressed me for years. I'm merely going on about the things that make _me_ happy. The simple things in life, rich in beauty. But you took that all away from me. All you want is power. You hunger after it. More, more, more, you say, you always want _more_! And I just want—well, this. Something beautiful, and sinister. So this is ideal, isn't it?"

"I want more than power," Sylar admitted, weakly.

"Oh?"

"Yes."

And it was true. Sylar did want more than just power. But it was something he couldn't say out loud—

"Tell me?"

Sylar forced himself to not speak. He knew that if he spoke, everything he'd worked so hard to build would come crashing down in one single moment, like that mirror. And then everything would change.

"I—I can't."

"You must!"

Sylar felt a trickle of blood fall down his nose.

"I—but why?"

"Because if you don't, _everything will fall apart_."

More blood.

"Why?"

"_Because I love you, Peter!"_

And with that statement, the snow faded away. All the corpses, and the blood were just. Gone. Vanished into thin air. And Sylar was back in his room. Alone.

Or was he?

He heard a door creak open. Sylar looked, squinting his eyes. He suddenly found it hard to see, hard to breathe, even. Nothing he did would help. All he could do was squint at that tiny figure ahead of him. A masculine figure.

It was Peter.

_Sunshine._

For once in the past few days, Sylar actually _smiled_. He had never been so happy to see anyone before.

"D—did you mean it?" Peter spoke plainly.

"I," Sylar cracked, "I did. What—how did you?"

Peter cracked a little smile of his own that was cunning in its own right.

"Visited my friend Matt Parkman," Peter laughed, "he said. That something had happened to him. That you had attached to his—conscious, or whatever, and he needed to get rid of you, and apparently, attaching you to my brain was the best way to get at you. And it was. I found out so much about how much you—really do love me. Through that interaction."

"So—this is all in your head?"

"Not my head," Peter corrected, "Yours. I returned you to your body…but decided to make you—I—I wanted to hear you say it."

Sylar looked up at the younger man silently. He had been right of course; Sylar had been in love with Peter. For so, so long. But Sylar had never said it out loud. Saying it for Sylar had always meant realizing it. And as long as it wasn't realized—made real that is; it wasn't there. He could ignore it.

But not anymore.

"Peter, I—"

"You don't have to say anything," Peter whispered, softly, "I know."

And with that, Peter leaned into Sylar for a kiss, and together, they breathed together, bled together, and for once.

Sylar was _cured._

He had Peter, and needed no other.

They were in each other's arms, and, even if just for the night, they were the special two.


End file.
